From the far bank

When the sun is going down,

a fringe of bare branches still reach up

between the horizon

and the deep-shadowed earth,

trunks mooring down to the water line,

flaunting face stares into my eyes

if I drop my outstretched hand,

raised, not in salute - but well I might.

The river’s ripples

reflect the persuasive blazing,

waves scattering light shards in all directions,

mostly downstream, the band of dazzle

drifts toward the bridge

and yet still holds in place.

The watery way looks bearable,

not to my feet, but softer to my eyes.

Yet the wet rivulets and the sprightly wavelets of lights,

like tiny boats bobbing, are driven

not by current or oar, but by the west wind.

Outlying coracles wink under the span

of liquid sunlight and head back out into the blue.